Tempest
by Satiah
Summary: People ask why I push him so hard. They come up with so many excuses: he's just a kid, I'm a bully...that's ignorance speaking. He already knows the harsh truths of the world better than they do. It's a shame he's too small to deal with it.


Fullmetal Alchemist © Hiromu Arakawa

...

I thought about his flashing golden eyes. The way they would dangerously blaze like lightning when he was angry. His fury had a tendency to boil over, completely unrestrained: somehow steadily crawling forth and rumbling onward like an unstoppable roll of thunder. Dark clouds of emotion would seethe forth, surging towards the object of his distaste, seeking to envelop it, smother it, and annihilate it.

That aforementioned object of distaste would currently be me.

People wonder why I harass him so—deliberately getting under his skin, pushing him towards the edge. They tell me the obvious—_he's just a kid, give him a break_—but that's where they're mistaken; so often they fail to open their eyes long enough to take notice of the situation at hand. He is more than "just" anything, and I can hardly call him a kid after all he's been through. It would be an insult to treat him like one.

Some think I enjoy reveling in my so-called _superiority_, controlling his every move and lording my knowledge over him as if my entire purpose in life were to belittle him. They liken it to blackmail. No. Again, they miss understanding the undeniable basis of his strength. I don't believe he would, or could, allow anyone to step in his way: control his every move. It's impossible. His spirit is too wild, too free, and entirely untamed. Not even death could slow down the unfathomable force of his pent-up energy; his rock-solid conviction to persevere through even the most horrific of trials attests to that. What on Earth could contain, much less manipulate, a will like that? Really?

And then there are those few dissenters who think I harbor a long-standing grudge against him: another unfortunate error, in my opinion. I continually push him to help him grow. They don't understand his need for growth comes best served through a healthy dose of friction. The clash of wills, the battle of intellect, and the fury of the awakened, engaged mind drives him onward. It needs to be unadulterated, stripped-down and painfully truthful conflict. That's why his anger is unleashed in such a wild tempest; he can't stand fancied-up lies and soft, motherly words designed to lessen the hurts of the world. He needs brutal honesty.

He already knows what's out there. To someone like him, "loving" protection is nothing more than intolerable patronization. He would consider it smothering, suffocating.

Even now, his raw willpower does its best to ignite; it whips at me, driving through as he lets loose the hurricane of emotion within. His anger is the easiest, channeled with words, and he gives it with the force of a storm. It boils over like thick clouds and lashes in every direction as if it were tendrils of forked lightning. The rain of his inner storm pounds mercilessly, ceaselessly, and unyieldingly. He doesn't give up; he rages on.

And that's where I come out ahead.

I endure his wrath steadily; an immobile mass of power all my own. And, much like the deadly force of a real hurricane eventually loses power when it surges itself across the silent, enduring earth, Edward runs out of steam as he runs aground of his argument. I face him solidly, without yielding anything, and let his rage dissipate. The calm of his storm follows, and he continues to glare at me, no longer howling his frustration as I stare calmly back at him. Finally, we have reached the hurricane's eye.

A few moments pass where I allow him to quiet his thoughts. Then I smirk, simply to get back on his nerves. And, like I knew he would, he regains his breath and once again rages with words and flailing limbs, energy renewed, just as violently vigorous as before.

I smile as I lean back in my chair: enduring, ignoring. Letting him get it all out before we discuss business.

I guess such a small storm can only maintain a _little_ _eye_.


End file.
